


Override

by Nymm_at_Night



Category: Be More Chill - Iconis/Tracz
Genre: Angst, Brainwashing, I see your Play AUs and raise you something even more fucked up, If you squint you can see Michael pining in the background, Illustrated, Jeremy Heere: Sacraficial Virgin, M/M, Mind Control, Pining, Rape/Non-con Elements, The Play, Unconventional Format, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Whump, the worst thing I've ever written
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-19
Updated: 2017-08-19
Packaged: 2018-12-17 06:44:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11846118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nymm_at_Night/pseuds/Nymm_at_Night
Summary: The SQUIP uses Michael's greatest strength and biggest weakness against him.





	Override

**Author's Note:**

> This was a mistake, but nobody else wrote it, so I had to.

Jeremy's head is still ringing from when Michael elbowed him in the eye, but he can't focus on that because Chloe and Brooke are standing over them, holding hands and smiling, sweet as antifreeze. He's been in this position before, and he's terrified of what happens next, but Michael's arm around him, even if it's a headlock, pulls him back to earth. He swallows the panic and uses it to force himself to his feet. His movements still feel slow and heavy, like someone's tangled his arms and legs in heavy string, but he manages, Michael steadying him.

Chloe and Brooke, despite being a head shorter than either of them, scare the shit out of Jeremy. Chloe does cheerleading, and Jenna once posted a video of Brooke crushing a watermelon with her thighs, so Jeremy is pretty sure that he and Michael, unathletic save for outrunning bullies and sex push ups, are dead meat. But that doesn't matter, can't matter, because he can see the bottle of Mountain Dew just behind them.

“C'mon, there are still a few drops left,” Jeremy hisses to Michael, who's glancing between Chloe, Brooke and the audience, who are barely paying attention.

“How the fuck do we get past them?”

Jeremy gives a shaky grin. “Apocalypse of the Damned?”

A ghost of a smile flicks across Michael's face and he nods and takes point, Jeremy darting in behind him, fists up. It's a familiar strategy, and the way Chloe and Brooke stumble at them, twitching and jerking, is zombie-like enough that if he doesn't think too hard, he can almost forget that this isn't a game, that their lives are on the line.

Slipping past them is easier than Jeremy expected, or maybe Michael, surprisingly agile for someone who’s spent most of his life playing video games, is just that much of a help. Chloe lunges at him, but Jeremy grabs his wrist and adrenaline gives him the strength to pull Michael out from under her as she claws at thin air.

They're close, so, so close, the bottle just a few feet away. Brooke swings at him and Jeremy covers his face on instinct, her fist hitting his arms with unnatural strength. It hurts, but he's had so much worse.

Michael ducks behind him, yelping a word of thanks, and Jeremy shoves Brooke away just in time to see Michael's hands close around the bottle. The ancient, syrupy liquid sloshes around the bottom, glowing under the stage's black lights.

“Jeremy!” Michael shouts over the heads of Chloe and Brook as he backs away, putting space between them. He mimes pitching the bottle, but he's cut off as Jenna steps out from the wings.

“I know what you're doing Michael,” Jenna crows, strutting confidently towards him. Michael stumbles back, but he can't move fast enough to avoid her fist. There's a sickening crack as he goes down, and Jeremy watches, horrified, as he curls in around the bottle on the floor, Jenna standing over him. “I know what everyone's doing, all the time!”

“I just feel so connected to you all!” Everyone chants, Jake and Chloe and Brooke and Jenna's voices tangling together as Jeremy runs to Michael, feet slapping hard against the stage, because he needs to get over there, god, Michael needs him.

And then something changes, and Jeremy stops, perfectly still.

After an impossibly long moment of being frozen, not even breathing, there's a spark across his brain, and he's walking again, slow and unhurried. Jeremy feels like a marionette who's just had all its strings yanked in one direction as his body pads over to Michael, Jenna stepping back to give him passage. He wants to scream at Michael, tell him that this isn't him, that he's sorry for whatever the SQUIP's going to make him do, but he can't. No matter how hard he shifts or struggles, his face stays in the same placid smile, his arms and legs striding with unfamiliar grace. There's an odd numbness spreading through his bones, pins and needles giving way to a terrifying feeling of absolutely nothing.

Michael picks himself off the floor, groaning, and Jeremy feels a dull shock of horror as he sees blood matting his hair from where his head hit the stage, and the sickening way his nose is bent. He's still got the Mountain Dew, thank god, but there's barely enough to cover the bottom of the bottle.

“Michael.” His lips move without his consent, stretching the vowels and softening the consonants perfectly, stutterless. He prays that will be enough to let Michael know. “Thank you.”

Michael relaxes and hurries over to him, and Jeremy can't feel it when he puts a hand on his shoulder. “Jeremy, what's going on? Are you okay?”

“I'm fine. Great actually.” Jeremy takes Michael's hand, running his thumb across the knuckles, feather soft. “I want to show you something.”

Michael stammers something about a zombie apocalypse, but Jeremy's distracted as his eyes flutter shut, vision going dark, and he distantly feels the shift in balance as he leans in, and-

Oh.

Oh god.

Something in him  _ breaks _ , nausea overwhelming every sense, because he can't take this again, god, Chloe was bad enough, please, he can't do this with Michael, because he never wanted it to be like this and he can't let it ruin him again. Even through the numbness, he can feel the hot slide of Michael's lips against his, the hand digging into his shoulder, and everything's twisting and writhing with his memories, a sick sense of deja vu overlaying it all with the taste of whiskey and vodka gummy bears and hot metal and no, no, no-

And then Michael pulls away, his eyes open, and at least now he can see the shocked look on his face, jaw slack and hands holding the bottle tight enough to make his knuckles go white. Jeremy clings to the image like a life preserver. “Jeremy, what the hell?”

“Michael,” Jeremy says softly, tracing Michael's jaw with callused fingers, but all he can think about is the dawning horror in his eyes, and god, he feels as disgusted as Michael looks. “I've been thinking about this for a while now.”

“No you haven't,” Michael says, pushing Jeremy's hand away gently, and putting his hands on Jeremy's shoulders like he's trying to keep him away and pull him close all at once. “You don't love me. I  _ know  _ you don't.”

The words and the harshness in Michael's voice sting despite the circumstances, but Jeremy's body just laughs, and it's not the cool, faux-casual chuckle the SQUIP usually trains him into. It's his old laugh, the one that wheezes and hisses through his vocal cords without making a sound. “Micah, I've wanted this for so long.”

Michael flinches at the old pet name, from back when Jeremy couldn't really pronounce Ls without tripping over his tongue and stuttering until the words twisted off into incomprehensible noises. It feels wrong, having the SQUIP take something so special and old and theirs, and pervert it like this. Jeremy slides a hand from Michael's shoulder down his chest and then to the curve of his hip, tracing the patches and pins like he's done so many times.

“Jeremy,” Michael hisses, but his voice is wavering. “You don't want this.”

“Of course I want this. You're my player one.” A smiles tugs at his heavy lips. It's like when he went to the doctor's to get a tooth pulled, and the lidocaine made half his face numb, with just enough sense to tug at the dead weight of skin and blood. “I'd follow you anywhere.”

“He would. He loves you, you know that, right?” Jenna says, and out of the corner of his eye, he can see her smiling, eyes glassy and glazed over. “He's loved you since freshman year, even after Christine.”

“Y-you're lying,” Michael says, desperate and toeing away from Jeremy and her. “I'm not fucking listening to you, you fucking calculator.”

“I assure you, I am not,” Jenna says sweetly. “I only want what's best for Jeremy, and after analyzing my data, I can assure you that this the most favourable outcome. For all of us.”

Michael doesn't say anything, just shakes his head and glances nervously between Jeremy and Jenna. Jeremy hates the fear in his eyes, but he can't look at it long, because now his neck and head and eyes are being pulled to look at Jenna, face twisting into a bashful smile.

“He was so scared of rejection. It's sad isn't it- “Jeremy feels himself shrug and nod-” how anxiety and nerves and self loathing can keep two people so perfect for each other apart. All that pining and crying at night, I just want to make it all worth it. For both you.”

Jeremy wants to hide and curl up into a ball at Jenna's words, because it's telling the truth, and Michael's going to hate him for this and then he'll leave and it'll all be Jeremy's fault, but the chip in his brain keeps his posture ramrod straight. He feels cut open, like the SQUIP's pulled out one of his organs for some sick display case. He's vaguely aware of the audience below them, and god, why are they just watching, why aren't they doing anything, someone do  _ something _ .

“Please Michael.” Jeremy's lips say. “I was so scared to tell you, and now the SQUIP's taken all that fear away. I'm happy, and I want to be happy with you.”

Michael covers his mouth with his hand and doesn't meet his eyes. Jeremy reaches out to ghost his fingers along the soft curve of his shoulder, and Michael flinches but doesn't pull away. A spark flickers across his temples for a second, making his vision blur and his fingers jitter, but it's not bad. It feels nice and soothing , it shouldn't feel nice, what the fuck is going on- . “Please, I'll do anything, just... let me be happy with you. Let all of us be happy with you.”

“Anything?” Michael asks, and the sincerity in his voice fills Jeremy with a  fresh wave of panic and betrayal, because he knows how this ends, with him pushed against the bed, paralyzed as she runs her lips across his collarbones, and he doesn't want to be anyone's plaything, not again, never again, but the thought's already being washed out by a  dull, heady feeling. “You'd let me do anything?”

“Of course. Anything.” Jeremy pulls his lips up in what feels like a flirtatious grin, and the chorus of _ no, not like this, never like this, and  _ every silly, stupid worry is swept away, because Michael is his best friend. He deserves the world, and anything he wants, and anything Jeremy can give. Jeremy wants to give whatever he can, whatever Michael wants. His hands trace the line of his jaw, strong and square under baby fat, and he can feel himself leaning against his chest.

Michael pulls him close, and Jeremy obediently follows. It's terrifying, sickening, being like this, nothing to worry about, just the incandescent feeling that thrums through him as Michael ushers him in and pushes a bottle into his hands.

_ The bottle. _

The most important bottle in the world, and Jeremy can't remember why, why can't he remember-

The waves roll in and take his worries out to sea, drowning them in the surf. It's just a bottle, glass cool under his palms, nails clacking against it softly. Michael is there, brushing Jeremy's hair out of his face and tucking it behind his ear. His best friend runs a thumb across the bone of his cheek, and Jeremy's vision blurs and he can't tell why, there's just this hot, sticky feeling running down his face as Michael leans in like he's going to kiss him.

He hopes he does n't .  The thought makes him feel like diving off the stage, but he can't because everything is numb and no, no, no-

The waves sweep in again, dragging him below the surface.

The kiss doesn't come through,  thank god,  and Michael just whispers against his cheek, soft and soothing  and terrifying, god what is he going to do to him, what is it going to make him do to him .

“Miah, drink this. Please”

His voice sounds so, so sad, and Michael should never be sad, but maybe if Jeremy is good, he'll be happy, and then they'll both be happy.

Jeremy's hand is already raising the bottle, and he can't worry about whatever Jenna's saying, because it's not like she's his best friend or anything. There's another surge of pleasure as his lips meet the cool glass, because he's doing good, he's doing what Michael wants, and he's doing good, he's doi-

The last drop of the liquid, red like blood or cherry slushies, slips down his throat.

Fire burns through him, and he can feel every muscle in him spasm. Is he the one screaming? Does Michael want him to scream? He doesn't know, all he knows is  whatever this is hurts, but it's better than the numbness. He holds tight to Michael’s hoodie like an anchor in a storm,  because Michael is his best friend , and maybe he'll know how to fix this, or maybe he'll bend and break him like Chloe, like the SQUIP, but anything’s better than this pain.  The puppeteer's trying to pull him off stage, yanking his head and spine and legs up hard enough to tear, but his feet are stuck with Michael, and the threads are going to  rip him apart, and  take him away from him again, and no, he doesn't  know if he want s that.

Something in his head snaps, and he can feel a crackle of heat run down his spine, like  a branding iron or the feeling of a hot slide on the playground with his best friend, his best friend who's there and looking scared, and what does Jeremy need to do to fix this?

Michael doesn't give him an answer, just stares at him wide eyed as Jeremy fists his fingers in his shirt. Why isn't he saying anything? He's the only one who can fix him, what did Jeremy do to make him angry enough to leave him like this?  What didn't he do to deserve this?

And then the threads are cut, and he can feel himself collapsing against the warm and soft and sweet smelling fabric of Michael's hoodie as his arms , are they his arms, _ and legs _, whose legs are those, jerk and shudder. Everything tastes like metal, like he's been kissing batteries or a taser. The feeling gives him deja vu._ _

____

The world is loud and hot for a second, a cacophony of voices screaming, glass shattering, and sizzling fat  and the smell of  frying meat and sweet soda thick in the air, and then the waves swallow him up into cold darkness.

____

**Author's Note:**

> Uhhh, I hope you liked it? Leave a comment or a kudos or whatever I guess? I'll post something longer soon, I swear.


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